THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. With one besetting, horrid hint, That racked me all the time: A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime: "One stern tyrannic thought, that made Did that temptation crave, Still urging me to go and see 66 The dead man in his grave. Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool And I saw the dead in the river bed, "Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing; For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began; THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man! "And all that day I read in school, And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, "Then down I cast me on my face, For I knew my secret then was one "So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, "O God! that horrid, horrid dream. The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. "And still no peace for the restless clay It stands before me now!" That very night, while gentle sleep Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist. THOMAS HOOD. WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea. For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep; MADRIGAL. There is an hour when holy dreams My thoughts of thee too sacred are Then most I pine for thee; As stars look on the sea. EDWARD BULWER LYTTON MADRIGAL. As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, To court her in a silver shower. ANONYMOUS. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways, A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone, Fair as a star, when only one She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and O, The difference to me! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. |